


There Are No Trains to Yongen-Jaya Today

by hearts_kun



Category: Persona 5
Genre: After Betrayal, Angst, Gen, Missing Scene, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-15
Updated: 2018-08-15
Packaged: 2019-06-27 16:01:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15688734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hearts_kun/pseuds/hearts_kun
Summary: Goro is choking on a cup of trashy coffee, feeling like he's about to die, even though it's not him who died.





	There Are No Trains to Yongen-Jaya Today

**Author's Note:**

> jii-ro, thanks for editing

The coffee is so terribly bitter that Goro wants to spit it and run away. He rubs his neck and breathes in anxiously. His head is dizzy.

He needs— he needs to breathe calmer, smoother, not that deep, but not that fast, or else it’ll only get worse.

He takes another sip; chokes; awkwardly leans over the table. To hold his head, to close his eyes, to push his forehead against the table and never be asked about it — that’s all he wants, that’s all he doesn’t get.

Everything’s too hectic here; not like Leblanc. There, it was warm and pleasant, it was safe.

Here it’s scary, life’s too fast and coffee is trash. Each second and every moment it seems like all the eyes are looking at him, following him (and maybe it _is_ so, he’s a prince detective, after all, a celebrity).

So he’s not allowed to twitch and shake, and lose his mind, cause if he does — someone is bound to ask if he’s alright. And then, what? _“I’m fine,”_ a lie, blooming like scratches on his cracked dry lips, bitten bloody.

He will burn these scratches with this scalding coffee and ask for a check; his voice pleasant and friendly as if he’s the very sweet boy who looks at his fans from the TV screen with charming confidence; the one who smiles when they like his Instagram posts.

The waiter will take the money and leave the receipt on the table; Goro will rub his cup handle, not letting them take it away, and hide the receipt in his pocket for it to seem like he’s not leaving.

And he’s not leaving. He’s not leaving, because the coffee is nasty and hurts his mouth; his heart is beating in his temples; his hands are shaking, and his feet can’t hold him. He’s not leaving, because he can’t, he’s afraid to trip and fall or pass out, or suffocate. He’s not leaving, because he has nowhere to leave to.

What does a traitor feel?

What does a murderer feel?

What are the feelings of someone who was once robbed of everything and now, with his own two hands, has destroyed the only relationship he managed to build? Was he even the one building it, though? Maybe he wasn’t? Maybe nothing good ever happened because of him. He was just standing there, watching. One step close.

His sight goes dark, and Goro clutches the edge of his sleeve. His heart is pounding.

Maybe if he goes underground, rides a few stops, changes the line, goes to Yongen-Jaya, walks along those narrow, stuffy, yet free streets— if he walks between those low small houses, almost leaning on each other, till that one painfully familiar door, maybe—

Maybe if he opens that door, _he_ will be there: his black curls, his stupid glasses covering half of his face, his deadly neutrality which, like a press, rarely and reluctantly, pushes out thin irony. His baggy apron, his agile hands, those precious hands, pouring coffee into cups with the grace of a master. The real coffee, filled with deep flavors and undertones, just like tiny pieces of sunlight. _He_ will say (he rarely says anything, but this time — he will) something like “Welcome home” or “I’ve been waiting for you”, or “Want your usual or to try something new? Sojiro taught me a few tricks”.

Then, Goro will probably sit down on the doorstep and suffocate for real this time. Because — all he did was in vain? Because — _he’s alive, he’s alive, he’s—_ Alive.

Someone is screaming into his ear, and Goro bounces and barely focuses his sight on a few people wearing their fake smiles.

“Sorry for bothering you. Akechi-san, right? My daughter is a huge fan of yours, maybe you could—”

Goro stands up, smiles politely and says he’s in a hurry, he’s in such a hurry, in a terrible hurry; and he leaves the café, not really feeling his feet. He wants to fall flat on earth, breathe in the grey dust of the streets, and die. Everything is out of normal: his breathing, his heart, his thoughts, his life and the world around. Falling out of rhythm, getting warped by the noise.

But Goro has to keep going, and he goes, automatically and blindly, not knowing where his feet will lead him.

Maybe if _he_ flashed by in the crowd, black curls, neutral, sarcastic, stable — Goro would feel better. He would be able to breathe again, and his life would stop hanging in the balance, and the phone in his pocket wouldn’t seem like a guillotine, ready to cut off his head each time Shido calls.

Maybe he would even throw the phone away, cut his hair, burn this hated school uniform, crack the TV screen and start handing out “fuck off”s instead of autographs. If only their eyes could meet, just for a second.

A hunched person in a stupid hoodie walks by, his face hidden in the shadows. Their eyes don’t meet.

 

Goro’s feet lead him to the underground but he doesn’t take a train to Yongen-Jaya.


End file.
